


Cardsharp

by libraryv



Category: War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: Card Games, Fist Fights, Friendship, Pre-Clara
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 12:34:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19109764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryv/pseuds/libraryv
Summary: Dolokhov is used to being accused of cheating at cards, but tonight's events take an unexpected turn.





	Cardsharp

**Author's Note:**

> For under_my_blue_umbrella, whose curiousity brought this from an unused backstory to a fic in its own right.
> 
> Who can resist Dolokhov being Dolokhov? :D

Dolokhov looked up at the men gathered at the edges of the table. His reputation always drew a small crowd. 

He shuffled the cards easily, tapping the edges neatly together while scanning the faces of the men he was about to play: this was going to be over quickly.

The fellow to his immediate left looked too drunk to be of any competition, he would lose it all and lose it fast.

The man directly across from him had sharp, calculating features; Dolokhov sensed some cruelty behind those small eyes. He would be harder to flout, but not impossible; cruelty often went hand in hand with blind pride. Best to make that one think he was on a streak before taking him down.

The gentleman to his right was handsome in a well-bred way, his brown eyes trusting. He was far too easy a mark, far too rich and naïve for a place like this: Dolokhov almost felt bad for him. 

Almost.

He nodded to them, and began dealing the cards with speed, casting a warm smile about the room, welcoming and playful. 

“Gentlemen, you are far too serious this evening. This is called a game, after all! Let us have some fun.” 

He leaned back, putting them at ease, drawing them in. 

He needed this tonight. There was no money left; for him, or to send home.

The first round was short, the planned win went to the man across from him, whose smug triumph played right into Dolokhov’s assumptions. 

The second round went a bit longer; the drunk fellow frustrated but barely upright by the finish. He got up and swung towards the other room, where women and more wine were waiting. Dolokhov knew there would be no return; they were down to three players. 

They took a break while he shuffled the cards again.

“I heard you are in the infantry.” 

Dolokhov turned and saw the eager expression on the face to his right.

“I am indeed.”

“My father has just purchased my commission. I am ready and willing, though God knows, untested.” He paused, admiration written clearly on his face.

“You have a reputation of being a war hero. They say you are fearless. I do not think I could be, when facing down the barrel of a musket.”

Dolokhov was slightly taken aback at such open sincerity. The man was clearly not used to the rough manners of a gambling parlour such as this, but Dolokhov found it rather refreshing. 

He took the man’s outstretched hand and gave it a firm shake. 

“Fyodor Dolokhov.”

“Aleksander Mikhailoff, your willing servant.”

Dolokhov couldn’t help smiling at this show of earnest formality.

The third man pounded his fist on the table, interrupting.

“Ivan Kartiv.”

He pointed at finger at Mikhailoff.

“I am getting impatient. Now can you stop your sniveling long enough to play a game with us gentlemen, or does your father have to do that for you as well?”

Dolokhov turned, slowly, to Kartiv, leaning back and fixing him with a cold stare.

“A gentleman knows to take his time in all things.”

He began to deal with painstaking care.

“I suppose, though, Kartiv, you might need a reminder: you are obviously no more gentleman than I.”

He cracked his knuckles, a subtle but clear threat.

“Shall we have Mikhailoff here show us a thing or two, or shall we continue with the game? You did say you are impatient to begin.”

Kartiv scowled; Dolokhov was at least a head taller.

“Just play.”

Dolokhov nodded; it was time to start turning the game. 

Years of experience had made him into something of an artist, when it came to cards. A laugh to the side, a drink of wine, a show of loosening his shirt, pushing up his sleeves. All the while, his mind working, his math keeping pace with the deck, and this time, the large pile of coins at the end belonged to him. 

The men watching laughed in recognition, and the words spread like wildfire around the room: Dolokhov was back on his game. Kartiv frowned.

“I thought I had that.”

Dolokhov gave him a slow smile. 

“You thought wrong. I warned you; I am hard to beat.” He leaned forward, both forearms on the table, his face flickering in the candlelight.

“Shall I make it more tempting, Kartiv? Double or nothing?”

He waited, confident.

“Triple.”

He heard Mikhailoff give a nervous burst of astonished laughter, but Dolokhov had been waiting for that exact answer. Pride; such an easy thing to exploit. 

The atmosphere was tense; all eyes were on the next game. Dolokhov was in his element; a few more casual drinks, a bit more sleight of hand, and the win was his once more. 

Kartiv glowered, angry. Dolokhov had expected it. 

“No. I won. This game was flawed.”

Dolokhov said nothing, watching. He was not new to this scenario. He leaned back, arms crossed, throwing an unconcerned smile at the watching men, including them.

“I believe these fine men here can attest to the fact that I won.”

The watching crowd murmured their assent.

This would play out two ways. Either the man would leave, or he would fight. Dolokhov always hoped for the latter; he relished a good brawl. His pulse, already elevated from the high of the last two falsely constructed wins, picked up speed.

Kartiv shook his head, and stood up, pointing at Mikhailoff.

“He cheated.”

Well, _that_ was a new development.

Dolokhov did not allow his surprise to show, but stood as well, palms flat on the table, ready, his blood already singing in his veins. 

“That man did not cheat. You are throwing a false accusation on his honour.”

Mikhailoff looked worried. 

“Come, Dolokhov. There must be some way-“

He was cut short as Kartiv stepped away from his chair and gripped Mikhailoff by the lapels of his coat, shaking him, spittle flying into Mikhailoff’s face.

“You are lying, you rich idiot! I know you cheated!”

There was a wave of grumbling and whispers; Dolokhov sensed the crowd turning.

Mikhailoff had his hands up in front of him.

“I – sir! I am not! I-“

The man swung his fist back, and Mikhailoff winced, bracing himself, and Kartiv hit him solidly in the nose.

Mikhailoff stumbled back, shouting in pain, his hand going to his nose. Kartiv reared again, but this time Dolokhov was by Mikhailoff’s side. He shot out a fist and caught Kartiv’s jaw in a swift left hook.

There was a moment of silence, and all hell broke loose: the room erupted into a brawl, fists flying, boots stomping. Half the men threw themselves at their neighbour, the other half cheering them on.

Kartiv was a dirty fighter; he grabbed a wineglass and smashed it into the side of Dolokhov’s head. He felt dizzy, felt blood drip down the side of his head, blinked the room back into focus.

“Have you gone mad?” he yelled at Kartiv, before landing a few punches into the other man’s ribs, forcing him back.

Kartiv screamed. His hands fumbled in his jacket, and he pulled out a knife. 

“Come on, hit me again,” he snarled at Dolokhov, brandishing the blade. 

Dolokhov advanced on him until he was in front of him, and grabbed his wrist holding the knife, immobilizing him, and Kartiv stepped back, astonished.

“I will,” said Dolokhov simply, and threw another punch, causing Kartiv to double over, wheezing. He dropped the knife, which Dolokhov bent down and picked up, wavering slightly.

He stood up, and realized the room had grown silent again; they had stopped to watch.

Kartiv was still on the floor, gasping on his knees. Dolokhov held the knife up high.

“That was a close call, boys! Come, I am in need of a drink!” The crowd laughed, and the men began picking themselves up, replacing the chairs kicked over, settling down into groups around the tables again.

Dolokhov found Mikhailoff holding a handkerchief to his nose, stained red.

“Let me see.”

Mikhailoff removed his hand, revealing a reddened, but no longer bleeding, nose.

“Not broken.” Dolokhov smiled as he used his own handkerchief to mop his forehead. “But you won’t look so handsome tomorrow, my friend.” 

His face grew serious.

“I am sorry, Mikhailoff. That game got far out of hand.”

Mikhailoff shrugged. “Should I have expected less from the legendary Fedya Dolokhov?”

Dolokhov grinned, throwing his arm around Mikhailoff’s shoulders and steering the both of them steadily into the next room. 

“Let me get you a drink that matches that nose of yours.”

They bought their wine at the bar, and Dolokhov held his up for a toast.

“Wait.”

Mikhailoff kept his glass to his chest.

“Tell me the truth. You were controlling that game.”

Dolokhov looked into the earnest brown eyes, and decided on a version of the truth.

“I’ve never had a player accuse anyone of cheating but myself.”

“You could have let me take the blame. It would have been easier for you.”

Dolokhov shrugged, grinning.

“And where would be the honour in abandoning a good man to a bad situation? Far better to fight for both our good names.”

Mikhailoff smiled.

“You have a good name?”

Dolokhov threw back his head and laughed.

“Mikhailoff, you are much more than your innocent looks claim.” He studied the clean-cut features, the red nose, the highly tailored clothing.

"What brought a gentleman such as yourself here tonight?" Mikhailoff merely shook his head. 

"That is a story for another time."

Dolokhov raised his glass again, and this time, Mikhailoff met his.

“To good men in a bad fight. May it lead to an even better friendship.”

Dolokhov looked around the room; this one had as many women as men in it. He winked at Mikhailoff.

“Shall we celebrate the evening properly?”

Mikhailoff laughed, shaking his head. 

“How do you know you will find a willing partner?”

“They are always willing, when it comes to me.”

“You are so confident, Dolokhov!”

Mikhailoff stopped in his laughing and looked at him.

“Tell me, Fedya, has there ever been a woman who was more than just willing? Has there ever been a woman that you have actually loved?”

Dolokhov shook his head, smiling into his wine glass. 

“Passion, I will defend to my dying day, but love? Love is nothing but a pastime for the rich.”

Mikhailoff gave him a friendly scoff.

“I am rich.”

Dolokhov shrugged. 

“Then you can afford it.” 

He gave an impatient sigh. “Besides. Who needs love, when it is so much easier this way? Women fall over themselves.”

“What will happen when you run across a woman who you cannot charm?”

Dolokhov gave a careless, assured toss of his dark head.

“You are describing the impossible.”

“Impossible? I am telling you, Dolokhov. Even a man with your confidence is not immune to failure.

Mikhailoff set down his glass.

“You are a betting man. Here is my bet: One day, you will meet woman who does _not_ 'fall over herself' at your swagger. She will be your match.”

He picked up his glass again, and raised it.

“And she will be your undoing. Quote your Dolokhovian wisdom to me about love, then.”

Dolokhov clinked his glass again.

“I will take that bet, because you will lose it.” 

Two giggling women came up to them; Mikhailoff draw himself up. 

“You gentlemen are certainly looking like the evening got the better of you,” said one.

Dolokhov’s lips curved into a smile as he touched the cut on his forehead.

“I assure you, ladies, nothing gets the better of me. Except, perhaps, being in the presence of such beauty.”

The golden-haired one blinked coquettishly at him, sticking out a hand ungracefully.

“And something else you should know,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it, his lips lingering on her skin,

“I am no gentleman.”

She squealed. Mikhailoff was being practically pushed out of the room by the other woman, and he caught Dolokhov’s eye with flushed cheeks and an ecstatic nod. 

Always so ridiculously easy.

For a moment, Dolokhov allowed himself to ponder his new friend’s earlier statement. 

What would it be like, to happen across a woman who point-blank refused him? He could hardly imagine such a thing, but the thought stirred in a rarely-touched corner of his mind.

The idea of such a challenge, of such a woman…he felt himself harden.

“I guess what they say about you loving fighting is true!” giggled his current distraction, whose hand had snaked down, far away from his side. 

Dolokhov smiled down at her. 

“Everything they say about me is true.”

She gripped his collar and kissed him, and he gave himself wholly over to her. He had won a game and a fight: no point in ruining the night with worries about things that would never happen.


End file.
